Me, Myself and I
by Alfenide
Summary: Phillip Coulson has lived, and died, only to continue on relatively undisturbed. His genetic duplicate meanwhile is starting from the very beginning. Or, Phillip Coulson has been cloned up to approximately sixty times, and now 'they' are facing the consequences.
1. Chapter One

Phillip Coulson has lived, and died, only to continue on relatively undisturbed. His genetic duplicate meanwhile is starting from the very beginning. Or, Phillip Coulson has been cloned up to approximately sixty times, and now 'they' are facing the consequences.

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE**

Once there was a man who took a spear to the the chest and —

Yeah.

There's no good way to end that story, is there?

.

PC2-009# is the oldest by zero-point-twenty-seven seconds. According to Matron, they were shooting in the dark with him. They didn't quite know what to expect.

So PC2-009# is zero-point-twenty-seven seconds old and he's already wrong — broken, but they tell him not to worry too much. They'll let him live.

He's the special one, see. He's the first. The first one out of... well, he can't remember (he's only zero-point-twenty-seven seconds old) but he's the first one to work properly. That's all he knows. He's the first.

 _Living Proof_.

That is what they call him.

.

 _"Oh my god,"_

The first time you meet Phillip Coulson, you are three years old.

 _"How many of you are there?"_

.

This is how PC2-009# and his brothers came to be:

Phillip Coulson has been alive for four minutes and forty-three seconds when one of the doctors draws a second sample of blood. He can't notice; consciousness is a haze, a high pitched whine that goes well with the thudding of his heartbeat in his ears and the vague jolting sickness.

He flinches, but not when the needle goes into his skin.

.

40 weeks later, PC2-009# meets his younger brother PC2-010#, who is shortly followed after by PC2-011#, exactly zero-point-twenty-seven seconds after. This makes PC2-009# zero-point-eighty-one seconds old. Both PC2-010# and PC2-011# are bigger than PC2-009#. Matron, who comes in every day all day to look after then, supervise them, says this is to be expected. Plus, they are all different.

See, PC2-009# is a little bit smaller than all of them. Yet PC2-010# is thinner in overall comparison.

PC2-011# squints a little all the time.

Matron says not to worry.

They're all perfect, she says.

.

They all have nightmares, though. All three of them.

They remember things. Little things. Mostly when they dream.

There is a pain they share. A deep, visceral pain that makes them convulse and shake and it jerks them from slumber almost simultaneously.

As far as they are aware, nothing is wrong. Some things were wrong with PC2-009# from the beginning, but not like this.

.

Phillip Coulson, meanwhile, wakes up every night, over and over again too.

.

The difference between PC2-009# and his brothers is that PC2-009# learns how to hide it. He bites his hand to stop the screams, even when asleep.

They sedate his brothers.

They bandage PC2-009#.

.

"They were implementing his memories, weren't they?" She says to you. "Phillip?"

You do not recognize that name. You think it's a name, but it isn't PC2-009#.

"Phillip Coulson? Do you recognize that name? Blink twice if you do."

You stare, open-lidded.

"That's okay. Probably for the best. Are you in pain?"

You blink twice.

.

 _"I'm sorry, boss. The god rabbited."_

 _"Just stay awake. Eyes on me."_

 _"No, I'm clockin' out here."_

 _"Not an option."_

 _"It's okay, boss. This was never gonna work... if they didn't have something... to..."_

It's the same nightmare, every time.

.

The weeks go by, a year and then two. Phillip Coulson builds a team only for it to be ripped apart, he watches S.H.I.E.L.D. burn to the ground before him, but he fights, and he lives. He survives.

PC2-009# meanwhile lives in his innocuous grey building, learning the little things, growing smarter and stronger gradually day by day. "He's happier with a nice new family," Matron says when PC2-009# asks when PC2-0010# is coming back. PC2-0010# was the smartest out of all of them, and he helps PC2-009# and PC2-011#, even though he's probably the weakest out of them all (he can't even do the baby stuff like running a mile and a half without getting out of breath, and he's mostly guessing when the People From Upstairs ask them about things from a time called Before). Matron had a lot of quiet talks with him about it, and PC2-010# always came back angry, and scared. It takes him a while until he stops shaking. PC2-009# sits with him until he does.

"I wouldn't think about him anymore, dear," Matron says. "He won't be coming back."

.

When PC2-011# leaves, too, you don't talk for a week and three days.

They start calling you Phil after that.

You don't really like your new name.

.

There is a tip off, back in the Playground. Movements and suspected dealings that has Director Mace calling in resources and newly found favours. In the end, they all know who to send in.

"Northeast Poland," the Director informs Coulson. "We're not sure what you'll find but I'm sure it's of interest to you."

Coulson sets his mouth into a thin, displeased line. "And Agent May?"

"All things in due time, Phillip." Mace gives him _The Smile_. "We're doing all we can, I promise. Right now it's imperative we find out what the situation is."

.

Here's the situation:

Phillip J. Coulson is the result of someone playing God.

Whatever you mean Phillip J. Coulson or Phillip J. Coulson is irrelevant. Neither of them asked to be.

.

"The other ones were defective," Dr. Streiten sighs. "New Phillip shows indications of possible damage to thought-to-speech patterning, though he retains language cognition. His heart is a little wonked — and you've seen him, he's smaller than the others, but he's practically identical."

"You killed off thirty-seven of them," The other man on the end of the line says, displeased. "Are you sure this is the one?"

"With all due respect, sir — if he isn't, there's more." Goodman replies. "We have a third generation on standby."

"And technically, these clones aren't completely Coulson," Another man says before Streiten can make him shut up. "I mean, they're identical clones." He splutters at the glare he's given. "But that's nature versus nurture for you. Phil Jr. is bigger than the original, but that's because we've fed him up like a baby piglet. He'll be better than the original, physically, once we sort out some of the minor issues regarding the development of his cardomuscular system. Mentally he's on par with Coulson when was around the same biological period, age wise. It's just a matter of, ah, _training_."

A sigh. "All this for one man."

"One good man, sir, begging your pardon."

.

You roll off of the platform and land awkwardly on all fours, sinking low as you brush your face and chest against the tiles below.

At first, you think this is normal — that today will be another day, of learning and therapy and medicine and improvement, but you soon realize that this will be nothing of the sort.

The room is dark and cold and the air feels stale and nothing seems right.

You struggle to get upwards and, having looked to the left, found a face. An unsure mixture between that of yourself and a stranger, with an aged demeanor. You recognize his features; his eyes and lips, the shape of his jaw, the curve of his nose. You recognize them, because you have seen your own reflection in the glass of your chamber, and your brothers looked exactly the same, too. Well. Somewhat. Lev squinted more than this man does, and Tenner's shoulders were a little bit thinner in comparison to his height. But they are yours. These features, they are the same ones you all shared. The figure leaning against the table, breathing hard with a face pulled into an expression of no filtered shock and fear and something that registers to you as anger, looks like you. He looks like Lev. He looks like Tenner. He looks like you.

Only, you are Phillip Coulson.

So why is Phillip Coulson looking back at you?

.

The Other-You asks: "Oh my God. How many of you are there?"

Fifty-eight.

Thirty-seven old corpses in stasis, twenty new embryos in cryo. And You.

Just you.


	2. Chapter Two

.

 **CHAPTER TWO**

You are not Phillip Coulson, it turns out.

There are thirty-seven of you. Identical looking men, all around the same size, but none of them are Phillip Coulson, either. Because they are dead.

In the end, however; it doesn't matter what they called you.

"How about Joseph?" Phil asks. For the sake of ease, he says, and Joseph, who's previous frame of reference when it came to names was Phillip and Matron and Ten and Nine and Eleven, gives a pleased, hesitant little nod.

.

Here is the difference between Phillip J. Coulson and the newly christened Joseph P. Coulson:

Phillip Coulson is fifty-two and he's lived a life most people can only dream of — only to him, sometimes they feel like nightmares and sometimes they feel like fever dreams; yet he never asks himself to otherwise distinguish between them and what other people call reality, because he's been there. Seen it with his own eyes. And this is the world he lives in and this is the part he plays. He's 5'9" and he's put on a bit of weight in middle age. He likes his suits pressed and he prefers cotton over satin, dark neutral colours over bright and bold. Yet despite the air of plain ordinary-esque he projects, he can beat larger and stronger men to death if it is necessary (Ward, Ward, Ward plays in his head like a burning, twisted scar) and he can — and will do so again — sacrifice everything at a moment's notice. He's cool-headed and interpersonally gifted; he's a leader, and he's kinder than most. He has learned how cruel the world can be, but he chooses to see the good in it regardless. That is what makes Coulson a good man.

Joseph Coulson meanwhile is what happens when you take a man's being, his blood and his genetic fibre, and twist it into something that is supposed to be better without the same credentials. Chronologically he is four years old — and yet he has the body of a twenty-year-old athlete and the intelligence of a man of fifty, but not the experience. His whole world is a twenty-by-forty metre room and the understanding that he is supposed to be something _better_. He can fire a 9mm pistol in either hand and hit the same target at one hundred and seventy-five metres. He can lift twice his own body weight. He is 6'4'' and weighs twice as much as his genetic donor. Simulations have proven that Joseph can and will kill other human beings if it comes to it, but he doesn't understand _why_ he has to. He is kind because he hasn't learned how to be cruel. He is a good man in the sense that he has yet to have the opportunity to become a bad one.

Somehow, Joseph Coulson is supposed to be better than Phillip Coulson.

In many ways he is.

And in many ways, he is far, far worse.

.

There is a whole world above your head that you had no prior knowledge of. Phil — he told you to call him Phil — the Real You, introduces it in a gentle and straightforward fashion.

"You really had no idea, did you?" He asks. You blink at him in reply.

No, you didn't.

Well, you did — ish. Nightmares and memories that flash back from seemingly nowhere paint a picture of a variety of strange locations that make little to no sense, but you have lived in the same place all your life. This whole concept of a brand new world above your head is frightening and fresh.

Very suddenly, Phil gave you the same look Matron did. Only Phil's expression doesn't last for long.

Now you stand in a cool area with bright lights, smiling people and strange smells. The people here appear to be consuming liquids inside plastic containers. They sit in groups or alone, some of them with devices, others with rectangular objects that appear to be the same shape, but in different colours.

You have been told not to talk to them, but you do not mind. Speech is difficult, even now, and anyway — you like to watch them more.

It's a strange experience, but after traveling in what you have now come to understand is a car, and stopping in another building to which they accommodated a living space (at least, that is what you are able to understand) and having changed into a new set of clothing after a wait of around two hours and forty-six minutes, you are here, in this strange place, so that Phil might acquire 'something stronger than mineral water' and 'figure everything out'. This, you do not quite get. Phil appears to understand this outside world, much more than you, so why he needs to 'figure' anything out is beyond you.

It's not the only thing seemingly beyond your immediate comprehension. After struggling to get you to understand how something called a _fridge_ works, Phil says you have a lot to learn. It's better to take everything one step at a time, he says.

Now, at least, after learning streets and cars and shirts, sweaters, trousers and windows and toilets and elevators and rain, fridges and automatic doors, you are learning three other new things: waiting in line, coffee, and the exchanging of currency.

It's all rather bewildering.

The people here look at you strangely with wide eyes and open mouths, but Phil appears relaxed, so you try to emulate the same level of composure. It is difficult. You have never been in a place with so many people, let alone people looking right at you, but you must be doing... sort of okay, because a few people you look back at laugh and look down, away from your own eyes, and none of that is the least bit threatening. It gives you a strange feeling, but it isn't bad. It isn't fear. It just makes you uncomfortable, and makes you feel a bit like you might want to laugh yourself.

"Hi there, what can I get 'cha?"

Phil slides his wallet onto the surface before him. He explained the idea of currency before, when you acquired Topside clothing that fit, but it still doesn't make much sense. You hope to learn more from this experience. "Uh, I'll have a Blonde caffe misto. The name's Phil."

"Awesome, and you sir?"

The woman behind the surface looks at you, and when you panic, so does Phil. He looks at you sharply, then at the woman.

"You know? Actually, he better have a strawberry lemonade slush — I mean, caffeine."

"Sure, and your name?"

You are about to respond with Phillip, just like what was formerly required of you Down Below, but Phil gets there first, on account of your thought-to-speech patterning being inadequate, your words, _slow_.

"His name is Joseph." He looks at the woman and smiles. It doesn't look right. "English isn't his first language, sorry." He glances at you. "Sorry for pushing you into that, I forgot."

Forgot what? Your name? You are about to remind him that _he_ was the one who gave it to you in the first place when Phil's attention is diverted away, to the woman who asks numbers off of him. He opens up his wallet to exchange a small pile of what you now know are bills. You watch the strange procedure from your vantage point, and then follow Phil to a pair of benches near the window. Phil explains he'll have to get up at some point to get their order, but until he does, they should sit here — and you should stay here until he says so.

"I don't want you wandering off."

'Wandering off' doesn't make sense, but the idea of you staying here, until he says so, suggests that he doesn't want you to get up and go anywhere else without his permission. That makes sense, you suppose. You wouldn't know where to go from here.

Once he has collected the items, he sets a large, red object before you and a smaller white one before himself as he sits down. There is a moment of silence between the pair of you, and for what must be the fifth, maybe sixth or seventh time today, you don't know what to do.

"I really don't know," Phil rubs at his face, looking tired, and you frown. You were supposed to be the one not knowing.

You let your jaw go slack, and you work through the words, slowly, but with determination.

"Why am I here?"

Phil looks surprised. "What?"

"What am I supposed to be doing here?" You ask. "I don't understand."

The Not You before you takes a long drink of his white object that appears to hold a hot liquid. He pauses afterward. "I don't know either." He admits. "But I don't think it matters anymore. I'm sorry."

"And Lev and Tenner?"

"Hm?"

"Lev and Tenner." You repeat yourself. "PC2 010 and PC2 011. My brothers. Where are they?"

Phil swallows. Only this time he wasn't drinking anything. "There are more of you?" And then, agitated. "Where?"

"I don't know where they are." You say, upset. "The people from Upstairs came and then they just—"

Phil moves his hand out and sets it just beside your red object. You tense. "No— I... Look," he deflates and looks around the room again. "Look, it's okay. It's just... Things are different... Here... Then they are where you came from, right? You can understand that?"

"Yes."

"Well, people here don't... We shouldn't talk about it right now, okay?" He says, low and deep. "We can talk about it later on, when I ask you. Right now..." He looks around the room.

You think about this for a long moment. Maybe Phil is worried about _threats_. Matron was often worried about something called _threats_ , too. They seem to be a reoccurring problem.

Phil starts to drink his white object again. Examining that exchange of movements, you consider doing the same, but yours has a long, tube-like object sticking out. You are pretty sure that the same movements do not apply to your own brightly coloured object. Its to be consumed, that much you know. Just how, currently, remains a mystery.

"My name is not PC2-009?" You ask, eventually.

Phil lets out a low, quiet noise. "No."

"And neither is it Phillip Coulson?"

A pause, and then, lower, but harder. "No."

"So it's going to be Joseph properly forever now?" You don't know how else to describe it. The fact that you keep on having to change names is somewhat infuriating, and you wish it would stop. How else are Tenner and Lev supposed to know it's you if you don't have the same name? That is one of the few ways to tell you all apart.

Silence, between the pair of you. Silence for a very long time.

You just about begin to figure out that the tube object can be removed if gently pulled, when Phil says, seemingly with weariness: "I'm sure it will be fine. You can be Joseph if you want to be. If not just... let me know. We'll work something out, okay?"

That's an odd concept, you think.

Then you think that this drink tastes disgusting, and that Joseph is okay. You like your new name.

You do, however, like Phil's coffee.

"That I should have known," he sighs, but he's smiling.


End file.
